


We are Renaissance Men

by Spylace



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Crossdressing, Fluff and Smut, Food Kink, Hurt/Comfort, Light BDSM, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Reunion Sex, Rough Sex, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-01
Updated: 2014-08-01
Packaged: 2018-02-11 05:44:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2055969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spylace/pseuds/Spylace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The usual sir?”</p><p>“Seven days.”</p><p>Natasha is impressed. Clint is appalled. Sam reminds them to keep hydrated.</p><p>Or, Steve and Bucky take a weeklong vacation in the best way they know how. PWP</p>
            </blockquote>





	We are Renaissance Men

**Author's Note:**

> 15 pages or so freshly written next to a bunch of Christian ladies who’d sent their sons to bible camp. I regret nothing.

Jarvis’ voice drones overhead.

“The usual sir?”

“Seven days.”

His ears burn.

Natasha is impressed. Clint is appalled. Sam reminds them to keep hydrated.

It’s become something of a routine at this point. The staff acknowledges him by rote. Stark has gone misty-eyed and paternal by the time they retire behind doors. For Steve and Bucky, an entire week lies ahead free to stake as their own.

Bucky has been undercover for months. It was nothing he couldn’t handle, nothing exciting or dangerous. But all thoughts of propriety jumps out the window the second he sees Bucky step off the tarmac with the swagger of a tomcat out on a prowl, unable to help himself from flirting with Natasha and throwing covert winks at the medic.

Steve’s family is dead. His war never ended but he imagines this must be what homecoming feels like. He’s had his feet on the ground all this time yet it feels like he’s the one who’s been away. Once he’s cleared, Bucky’s fingers chase the twitching muscles under his shirt, the flutter in his chest and the thrum of his blood. Steve noses along his neck, rank and filthy, smudged with dirt, hooks his thumbs under the combat BDUs to judge for himself how much weight he’s lost, how much skin he can spare at the hips.

Tony catcalls and tells them to get a room. They have an entire week to themselves after all.

Bucky knocks his head against his and sighs as Steve gropes along the wall for lights and the keypad into their floor when Jarvis inquires British-polite if the sirs need help and he replies yes, yes, open the door please, close the curtains, turn down the lights, because it’s not shame that hides them away into the opulence of Avengers Tower, it’s knowing that they belong to each other and no one else. They are the kids from Brooklyn at heart, selfish and loathing in sharing.

He trips over the coffee table kicking off his boots. Bucky coughs in laughter as he becomes snared in his armor, the straps and buckles and Velcro unable to tear fast enough for his tastes. But throughout, they keep touching. A hot thumb pressed low against his spine, the fast beat of Bucky’s heart under his palms.

It’s been two years since Steve found out Bucky’s alive, less he’s had Bucky in his arms like this, warm, solid and happy in a way that makes Steve wish he’d taken up photography in his spare time instead of art because Bucky is beautiful and he wants to capture this moment awash in the dawn’s golden light. Steve wants to stay like this forever.

But time is a fickle mistress. They’ve already wasted an hour getting settled in. And the way Bucky touches him, looks at him, does things to him like he’s discovered everything all over again when he was sixteen, summer. Bucky had been shirtless, skin slick with perspiration and peeling all over. He’d blinked at him dirty and slow from under his eyelashes when he caught his glance, lips curled into a Cheshire smile as he sank to his knees.

“Shower.” Bucky grunts because they haven’t made it to complete sentences.

The bath room is big, much bigger than their old place. Filled with switches and nobs Steve doesn’t even know half of. But they’re in too much of a hurry to enjoy the amenities. They just turn the water on as hot as it will go and stand under it as it soaks into their skin.

Bucky tilts his head back and takes his fill. His mouth is obscene, throat bobbing at the first swallow and Steve bites the crest of it as though he can somehow pare it like an almond seed. He crowds Bucky against the tiled wall, away from the boiling showerhead where he can see him without the misty veil, sinking his teeth deep in his clavicle because he does not want to let go.

The other man grunts, squeezing shampoo in his hair. Clever fingers follow the seams of his skull, digging the cold from his pores. It’s slippery and smells like canned peaches, the perfect kind of slick to stick in, wiggling his fingers as he waits for Bucky to loosen around them.

“Really? Shampoo?” Bucky asks breathless and Steve jokes, “You’ll have the prettiest asshole.” Bucky bites his ear in retaliation, crouching down, clamping his thighs around his knees. The water feels wonderful as the brunet takes his face in his hand and kisses him. The shampoo stings his eyes and he has to come up for breath when the water runs the wrong way but Bucky is laughing like he never had when Steve was sick. Like he’s happy to hear the coughs, takes the wheezes and the bitten curse words as a proof of Steve’s lungs. No earthly flu with take him ever again.

Bucky comes to his mouth. An entire week—!

It almost feels like it’ll be enough.

 

After the shower, Bucky is shiny and new swaddled in white.

They don’t bother getting dressed but they do eat. The kitchen has been stocked for their arrival and they feed each other across the counter, taking turns at scrambling eggs, flipping pancakes and squeezing fruits. Bucky lewdly cups two halves of grapefruits as he recounts the tale of a woman he’s heard a thousand times in this life and next, infinite variations of Bucky the charmer, Bucky the lady killer. But it doesn’t sting like it used to. He knows where Bucky’s heart lies because it doesn’t matter what they do in the line of duty, they belong to each other. That kind of certainty is more than what most people can claim to have.

But the milk mustache is hard to resist and Steve leans in for a kiss, moving around the counter to bump knees. Their dessert is ice cream and Bucky pulls a carton of Neapolitan from the freezer to eat off Steve’s abs.

They start out civilized, bowls, spoons, everything before Bucky not so accidentally spills the whole thing on his chest and licks it off. Steve sucks on the smudge of strawberry at the corner of his lips. Vanilla becomes a sticky mess and he complains that they just took a shower to which Bucky points out they never tried the Jacuzzi.

Steve has nothing but love, love, love for Bucky and he tells him so in worship.

Bucky tells him he’s a sap.

There is no Shield here, no Hydra, no Avengers, just them. And Bucky hums content, his lips flush with indolent kisses.

 

Their arrangement starts because Bucky can’t sleep and whatever little he does manage are riddle with nightmares that could have given the Red Skull a run for his money. When he isn’t high on horse pills, Bucky shuffles around like the walking wounded and it physically hurt to watch him curl up on himself on the couch, connecting dot to dot on the ceiling every night.

Steve used to stay up, ears trained to every rustle and creak of his body. Jaw winding tighter and tighter until it felt like his teeth might crack. In a tacit agreement, they sometimes watched movies together before Steve inevitably dozed off because ninety-five was still ninety-five and he’d wake up to Bucky making unhappy noises, hand creeping along his side to hold Steve through whatever monster chasing him in his dreams.

“You have got to sleep.”

“I know.” Bucky mumbles, wearing holes in the floor. He looks up, bags under his eyes getting big enough to hide bodies. “If you’d just let me take...” At his expression, Bucky finishes lamely. “It’s something.”

“Can I help?”

Bucky laughs under his breath.

“You do enough.”

“C’mere.” He says, drawing him into a bear hug.

Bucky lets out a noise of protest before falling into his arms, stiffening when he can’t see anything against Steve’s chest. “Stand down sergeant.” Steve instructs, covering his eyes. “Get some rest.”

“I don’t...”

“That’s an order.”

The fight goes out of Bucky’s body.

“You’ll keep watch?”

Steve shifts, pulling Bucky on top, pinned by his weight.

“You know I will.”

“Okay.” The other man concedes. “Let me just...” He wiggles, knees brushing dangerously close to his crotch as the other man unholsters his guns and places them on the coffee table in easy reach. Steve gives them a baffled look, wondering where his friend could even hide the pieces in his skin-tight jeans. Bucky lays his head on Steve’s shoulder and squeezes his eyes shut.

“Sleep.”

 

They move to Stark Towers. It is the only place secure enough, sound-proofed and hulk-proofed that the neighbors won’t call the cops on them for some heavy petting. After they shower, eat and bathe again, they look each other over. They have a system in place. Injuries take priority. Anything their healing factor can’t take care of goes to the medical bay ever since Steve fainted during lovemaking from a ruptured kidney. Bucky won’t touch him with a ten-foot-pole if he so much as has a decorative bruise on his forehead.

But scars are different. Bucky approves of each with kisses and tongue, asking for stories behind every new mark that appears on his hide. The serum makes him durable but there are wounds that go deep enough to hurt, things that leave blemishes other than bloodstains and torn muscle. Steve knows Bucky’s old scars well. The scraped knee from when he fell trying to catch a bus. The nick on his thumb from when he accidentally sliced it open with a blade. Bullet wounds from time lost to them. The arm in his left shoulder, the pound of flesh in between.

The crease beneath his hairline is new. Light enough that it’ll fade in the following weeks but new. He rubs at it like it’ll disappear if he does it hard enough.

He moans when Bucky rolls his tongue across the slit, eyes twinkling because he knows what Steve is doing. Taking advantage of his nonexistent gag reflex, the other man swallows him whole. Heat sparks his skin when he sees Bucky’s throat bob from the strain, cheeks hollowed and just sitting there with his mouth open letting Steve fuck his mouth even as he starved for oxygen, the blue in his eyes blown to summer tides.

Steve fists his hair. It’s such a rush to see Bucky on his knees. Knowing Bucky could have anyone in the world but he is doing this just for him. He tries to keep it slow, steady, hips jerking in a rhythm when silver fingers circle his hole and pushes in.

His vision whites out. “I’m going to...” He bites his knuckles. Bucky disagrees with this decision and sucks harder, swirling his tongue messily around the crown like it’s coated in chocolate. “You look so good.” Steve gasps. “Just look at you. There wasn’t a boy or a girl who could keep their eyes off of you on Sundays.”

It’s blaspheme but he can’t stop. “But you’re just for me aren’t you Buck? Must have done helluva good thing to keep you.”

Steve’s head spins when the other man pulls away abrupt with a hint of molar somewhere and Bucky hurriedly gathers his bathrobe around his waist, lips shiny with spit. He straddles his stomach and Steve lunges sideways, battering his knuckles against the hardwood fishing a clear tube from the drawer, squeezing it directly onto his fingers as he traces a path from Bucky’s sack to perineum.

“ _Hurry up_.” Bucky hisses. Steve lines himself up and pushes in, the tight clutch of heat only just parting like a budding flower in spring. Bucky has a phenomenal ass, a thing of beauty—much nicer than his. He takes generous handfuls and kneads them like he wants to build something in their honor. “I’ve been hard.” Bucky confesses, squeezing like a vice. “All goddamned day.”

“I got you off in the tub.” Steve responds, wounded.

“Doesn’t count.” His eyes slides shut as Steve slams into him. “Every fucking day, all I could think about was how much I missed you. And your dick. God I missed your dick.”

“Just my dick?”

“All the important parts.” Bucky assures him, steading himself with a hand across the center of his chest. “There was a girl in Chechnya.” He pants, pumping himself in time with the thrusts. “Kept hitting on me. Offered a suck job.”

It’s selfish, stupid and regressive of him but he growls and throws the other man, putting him on his knees, hips raised even as he slips back out, smearing lube and seminal fluids on the back of his thighs. “Did you say yes?”

“Had to turn her down. She couldn’t give me this.” Bucky rocks back demanding as he claws open one pillow, his metal arm keeping up the punishing pace. It’s brutal the way he strips himself, whimpers scratched out of his voice box. “No one can give me this.”

And like a wolf taking his mate, Steve covers him chest to back, arms crushed together, fingers overlapping as he thrusts home. Bucky shouts into the mattress and he squeezes his hands, pulling him close like he wants to peel back the skin and live there. Steve kisses him on the back of his neck, his shoulders, his spine. A kiss for each thrust.

“Wasn’t happy.” Bucky moaned. “When she found that I had a wife.”

Steve closes his teeth around one ear.

“Is that what I am?”

“My own ball and chains.” The other man laughs, spreading his knees apart. “So good to me. Never. Lets. Me. Have. Any. Fun.”

Bucky slants his head and the possessive denominator as well as the filthy look in his eyes sends a bolt of something straight to his cock. The mattress starts to creak. It’s Stark Towers but him and Bucky, they are men out of time, ageless and deathless in that moment. The headboard smashes against the wall in a way that would have gotten them thrown out everywhere else and a noise bubbles from Bucky’s lungs that lets him know that he’s close and with a stutter of hips, Steve loses it, filling him with his seed.

Steel knuckles scrape low down his belly and curl beside where they are joined, warmed by the heat of their bodies, pistoning alongside Steve. Bucky milks his shaft for every last drop, the greedy hole taking him and the fingers both. With a hoarse cry, Bucky finally comes, a string of jizz cooling under him.

He protests when Steve pulls out, hole sticky with cum. Steve gets a wet cloth.

“Hey.” Bucky croaks when he gets back. “You don’t gotta...”

“Shh...” Steve soothes. “Let me take care of you.”

“Mmph.” The other man grunts, crinkling his eyes. “Wife.”

“You spent a lifetime taking care of me.”

“Only because you were a stupid kid who never knew how to pick his fights.”

Steve lets him talk. Bucky has a wonderful voice. He wishes he could bottle it up and store it someplace, for the days he wasn’t there. There are things called recorders, small, portable and discreet. But Bucky’s voice lost their spark in transit; the ‘Bucky-ness’ remains his own. So Steve takes his fill of it while he can. He lies down next to him while the brunet waxes about nothing and everything, things he’d seen, people he met. Some of it might even be true.

Bucky stares through the curtain of hair. It’s getting long. Nearly down to his chin.

He kisses him, again and again until Bucky falls asleep.

This is day three.

 

Steve starts losing sleep. It didn’t matter, it’s worth it to know he is the only person in the world Bucky trusts to keep him safe. He forgets sometimes that he’s no longer that skinny kid from Brooklyn too stupid to back away from a fight. He hopes that he is wiser now, better now, because there are some things in life he will never be prepared to lose.

Bucky is displeased when he finds out.

“Why are you doing this?” Bucky asks, picking a spot in his shirt as Steve watches him as he always does before bed time. “What do you get out of it?”

There are many answers he can give him. Many of them are true.

“’Till the end of the line remember?”

“Trying to make an honest man out of me Rogers?”

In the end, it is Bucky who acts first. And it’s right that way. Bucky laid claim to his heart a long time ago.

Without Steve prompting him, he pushes down on the couch and press their lips together, a tentative swipe of his tongue begging for entrance.

Their first time is far from perfect. They don’t know what they’re doing. They’re mostly going by instinct, lingering on whatever feels good and what does, they move on. Steve comes embarrassingly quick in his pants and he gasps, “Did you...?”

“No.” The other man sounds pained. He’s not hard. Steve can feel it as Bucky swings a leg off the couch. “It’s fine.” Bucky insists, batting his hands away. “I’ll just.”

“That bad?” Steve asks wryly. “No wonder the dames never...”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence Steve Rogers.” Bucky snaps. “Or I swear I’m going to lick you. Ain’t nothing wrong with you and if those broads couldn’t see that, it’s their loss, not yours.”

Steve spreads a hand on Bucky’s stomach, right between the pubic bone.

“Then why can’t you see that the same goes for you?” He asks earnestly. “You’re perfect.”

The other man looks away.

“You don’t gotta lie Stevie. It’s alright.”

“Have I ever lied to you?” Steve demands, sitting up.

Bucky shakes his head.

“Then believe me when I say, James Buchanan Barnes. You’re the best guy I know and I’d be honored to spend the rest of my life with you.”

“You...” Bucky looks stricken. “You’re so _stupid_ sometimes, you know that?”

“How can I?” He retorts, stroking the line of his dick through the rough denim. Bucky hitches his breath, leaning into his touch. “You took all the stupid with you.”

Bucky is slow to rouse even as Steve rubs against him, eager for a repeat performance.

“But why me?”

“You gonna make me say it Buck?” Steve pulls the other man close. “Because I love you.”

 

Steve wakes to the snick of handcuffs.

Bucky had been busy while he was asleep. There is a blindfold around his eyes he can only blink at as the other man slaps his flank and says, “Rise and shine sleeping beauty, it’s rude to keep people waiting.”

His cock, recognizing the tone of the other man’s voice, jumps to attention.

Bucky immediately snaps a ring around the base as his arms are suspended overhead.

Steve tests his restraints. While they’re not unbreakable, he’s going to have to _try_ to get out of them. He flexes his toes, his ankles and his knees. They’re free. For now.

The other man taps his cheeks.

“Safe word?”

Steve stills.

After a moment, he lets out a breath and answers “Ironman.”

“Wait, what. Really?”

Bucky sounds thrown.

Blushing, Steve explains, “I’m hardly going to say that in bed.”

To which Bucky counters, “I’ve seen Barton’s videos. You look good with Stark.”

“And you look good with everyone.” Steve argues feebly. He tugs at his arms. “Can we not talk about Stark while I’m like this?”

“Which one?” He jumps when Bucky settles between his knees, dribbling lube across his stomach. His fingers skate on top, brushing against a nipple and down, tracing each rib and dancing to the quiver of his muscles. “I remember.” Bucky sighs. “The way Stark looked at you like he owned any of this just because he had a hand in making it.”

It’s the way he says it. How he spits the words out one by one that raises his hair on end, breathing coming hard and fast like he’s having an attack except he can’t because the doctors promised him and Bucky would never hurt him no matter how sore he was but there is a sliver of metal threading his calves and Steve knows better than anyone that Bucky is never unarmed. Steve’s blind folded and he can’t see what Bucky’s got in his hands, in either of his hands. He can’t tell if it’s just his left arm or something else tapping against his drawn calves. He’s lost all sense of direction and the only thing grounding him is the painful throb of his dick and the pressure around his wrists. Everything else fades into the backdrop.

“Bucky. What are you _doing_?” He rasps as metal glides past his knee and he swears to god, it’s a knife. The trickling can’t be what he thinks it is. His blood turns to ice. He struggles now. “Bucky.” He calls again. His legs are still free. If he wants to get out, he can but then he’d have to hurt Bucky. Bucky would never hurt him.

“Shh...”

Two Buckys exist in his mind. The one after and the one before. Bucky was created to be wilder and dangerous. Not the perfect soldier Dr. Erskine and the Allied Forces had in mind but something else. Nothing meant to be leashed but to be caged behind bars. Where he should have been all smooth talk and charm. Bucky is brittle like he can’t blunt the hurt. Steve’s already gotten his share of cuts slicing himself on the edge. But this is different. It’s got him hard enough to drill diamonds by the time Bucky gets to his dick.

His body bends away from the metal as it bites his hip. But they’re everywhere, the metal, the _blade_ , Bucky. He nearly embarrasses himself when Bucky licks him from his hole to sac, the walls of his mouth raw as he chews his safe word over and over. The point drags at his abs and his toes curl instinctively, scrabbling for purchase.

Bucky laughs as though he’s had an epiphany.

“You like this.” He says gleefully. “You, America’s golden boy.”

The spine, it must be the spine, otherwise he would have been laid open and things would be a lot messier, creates spirals on his chest, his skin a goddamned canvas as Bucky draws all over, tracing the raised lines with his tongue. Laving them like he can’t get enough of the taste. He must know how long it takes a man his size to bleed out. He must know.

“I can’t help it.” Steve pants. “It’s you.”

The other man makes a pleased noise.

“I wish you could see it.”

Bucky grips his cock, smearing precum into the slit. He gives it a kittenish lick as the knife returns, sawing at the sensitive skin at his hip. There is no pain, not yet. Bucky keeps his knives sharp. Close to his ear, the brunet whispers “you have no idea how pretty you are when you come.”

Fear chokes him.

“Then let me see.”

“Not yet.”

And with the knife poised over his stomach, Bucky goes down on him.

There is a certain thrill that comes with blind fear. His nipples are hard and pointed. Chest heaves from drawing too much air. His thighs clamp around Bucky’s neck, intent on keeping him there even as the knife threatens tear him wide. Bucky pushes three fingers up his ass and threatens to turn it into an entire fist. It burns when he adds the thumb and he’s not sure if it’s sweat or something else pooling in his bellybutton.

Not a finger on his dick and Steve still comes, boxing Bucky around the ears. The knife digs too deep and he panics.

Steve chokes when the blindfold is torn off his face. He blinks up at the light, tears gathering in his eyes as Bucky pulls him forward for a hug. It takes a while for the noise to make sense. “Steve, Steve, Steve, you’re alright, it’s okay. I would never...” Bucky babbles, showing him how the metal plate on his knuckle is thin enough to create the illusion of a knife. There’s hardly a mark on him. The only real harm to the meat of his palms where his nails have dug in and torn the flesh.

“You didn’t use the safe word. Why didn’t you—“ Bucky kisses him, shoving oxygen back into his lungs. The sudden purge of fear leaves him utterly lightheaded like jumping off a plane. His shoulder creaks and Bucky pushes him away. “I’m sorry, so sorry. I didn’t think...”

Steve bites him on the tip of his nose.

“Stop saying sorry.” He orders, voice completely wrecked. Steve hooks an ankle behind Bucky’s knees, trapping him place. “I’m ready.” He says, lifting his hips. “I’m ready.”

The other man stares for a moment before slicking up his abused hole and sliding right in. Steve only just manages to hold on, dick spouting weakly between them.

“Bucky, Buck...”

“I’m here, I’m here. I love you. I love you so much.”

 

Bucky spends the entire day shut up in his room.

He’s almost afraid to know. But every time he gets within an arm’s reach of the door, Bucky curses and Steve retreats to the front of the TV. Antsy, he switches from one channel to the next. Home shopping, National Geographic, and back. He almost doesn’t hear the door opening and the smell of feminine perfume.

Steve cranes his head, slow.

Bucky is dressed like a woman.

He’s wearing a plaid skirt with a simple blouse, cotton bras visible underneath. Steve approaches him as he might a cornered animal and is surprised when Bucky opens his mouth and says, “You’re Steve, right?”

For a moment, he blanks. Panic surges at the fore of his mind. Did Bucky forget? What did he forget? What does he remember?

Hesitantly, Bucky asks again “Steve?”

Mouth dry, Steve answers,

“Who else would I be Bucky?”

Bucky lights up like Christmas.

“You know my name.”

“Of course I do.” Steve says with a touch of impatience. If this is a joke, it’s not funny.“What’s this all about?”

“I wanted to surprise you.” Bucky says shyly. He bites his lips. “I dressed up just for you.”

“I’m surprised.” Steve croaks. Relief weighs him down like a drowning man.

He cups the side of the other man’s face, fingers curling into his rich, brown hair. And just because he can, he holds Bucky there in the sunlight where gold dapples play across his skin. “I’m surprised—you’re beautiful.”

With a sweep of his eyelashes, Bucky says “Thank you.”

He starts with the blouse because all that effort should be appreciated. His hands shake a little and his face burns as the first button parts but the rest are easier and by the time his fingers trip over the lacy patterns on Bucky’s bra, he’s got a tongue stuck in his throat. Bucky squeaks a little, real and invented as he scolds, “Steve Rogers, I’m not that kind of a girl.”

Steve grins with delight.

He plays along, tucking the strands of dark hair behind his ears.

“Aren’t you? What will the neighbors think, seein’ you talking to me all by your lonesome?” He pets his hair, strokes his neck, pushes the fabric off one shoulder and grazes it with his teeth. Bucky gasps, knees crossed as Steve follows the cleft of his ass, pushing his panties—and his eyes bulge when he feels them under the skirt—aside. “Makes a fella think he’s got a chance.”

“Steve.” Bucky whines. He doesn’t even try to touch his dick. If Bucky’s playing the part of a dame, he doesn’t have to. His fingers push in without resistance, his entrance dripping wet and loose like an open invitation. Steve pulls his fingers back out and takes a tentative taste. Bucky lowers his eyes, scarlet with humiliation.

“Naughty girl.” The other man flinches.

Steve is stunned because preparation is something they do together. It gives him a sense of propriety knowing that no one will see Bucky like this, no one will get to see Bucky like this except him. “You’re so wet.” And he noses along the line of the other man’s neck, tongue rasping against his collarbone and down, squeezing the stuffings in his bra and lifting them to suck at the dark areola and the pebbled tits. Bucky’s stomach quivers when his hand goes under his skirt again.

“Steve... please...”

“You’re so wet.” Steve breathes, sealing their lips together. There’s a hint of cherries somewhere and he chases it, licking into Bucky’s mouth like he can’t get enough. They bump their hips together in a slow grind that almost has him blowing it in his pants but Steve likes to think that after a year of underlying sexual tension and the marathon of lovemaking that followed, he has a modicum of self-control over his attraction for his best friend. “Have you been thinking about me?”

The answer is long in coming, tearful as Steve finishes unraveling his gift.

“— _Yes_.”

Steve lifts him easily, slamming him against the wall.

“Is this what you want sweetheart? Are you my bad girl?”

“I’m your girl.”

His pants aren’t dropping fast enough. He doesn’t even know where Bucky got all this stuff, the skirt, the bras and the panties, all in his size. Steve doesn’t remember any doorbells. That means that Bucky’s been planning this a long time.

Bucky keens when he shoves two fingers up his wet snatch, eyes shut like a girl on her first time and Steve reassures him in spite of himself. Rubbing circles into his spine. He could never stand to see Bucky in pain, real or imagined. “I’ll be gentle.” He thrusts up. “I’ll be good.” He grunts when Bucky claws at his back. “Are you going to be good?”

“I’ll be good—I... ah—ah, ah, right there.”

Steve breaches him, easy. Calls him a whore and all kinds of foul things that would have his mother spinning in her grave. “Bad girl.” He breathes. “Bet you say that to all the boys.”

“Steve, _please._ ”

Steve hitches Bucky’s legs up.

“You asking for it now Buck? You gonna take it?”

He hips at his throat, plowing into him and his plaid skirt like he’s a penny-whore on the docks. Bucky moans his name out loud, flickers of emotion, shame, desire, relief, all naked across his face, hips raised virginally, passive, taking all that Steve has to give him.

“Don’t pull out.” Bucky whispers urgently when he is close.

Steve’s eyes widen.

“Don’t pull out. Put it in me. I can take it Steve. I want you. I want you to put a baby in me...”

He says his name like a mantra. There’s only Bucky. Bucky is the only thing he’s ever really wanted.

 

“Morning.” Bucky yawns, flopping into Steve’s lap.

“Morning.” Steve says pleasantly, dropping a kiss on his cheek.

“We doin’ anything today?” Bucky asks, peeking around the day’s paper.

He shrugs. “Wanna go out?”

“Not really.”

Steve makes a noncommittal noise.

They spend an hour in comfortable silence before Steve puts away the paper.

“I think.” He says. “I have an idea.”

“What is it?”

“Still got your dress?”

“It’s salvageable.” Bucky leers. “If you wanted a repeat, you could have just asked.”

“No I mean.” his face burns like a signal light. “Make sure you look nice tonight okay?”

Spine bowing like a feline, Bucky saunters off.

“I always look nice. Any requests?”

“I want to take you dancing.”

 

“Jarvis?”

“Yes Captain? How may I be of assistance?”

“Umm,” Steve tries to judge through the mirror if he’d gotten his tie right. “Two steaks medium rare and a bottle of wines please.”

“Of course sir, any preferences?”

“Whatever you think will be good. We’re not really that, picky.”

“Duly noted. When would you like this delivered?”

 

“Need help?”

“I’ve got this.”

“You sure?”

Steve turns to look.

Bucky grins.

The other man leans against the bookshelf, dressed to the nines. He looks dapper in his pinstriped grey suit, clean-shaven and his hair neatly combed back. Casually, he shrugs his jacket off and lays it smooth on top of the couch. He pulls at his suspenders, rubbing his wrists as though checking for time. Steve nearly breaks his neck tripping over a magazine on the floor. He holds out a hand and says, “May I have this dance?”

Bucky raises an eyebrow, stares thoughtfully at the ambient lighting and the soft blues of the stereo in the corner. He rocks back on his heels.

“I think I can find a room in my card.”

They dance against the New York skyline. Steve guesses that it’s close to midnight, there are much fewer cars on the street. They’re both silent. But they don’t need very many words anymore. They simply let the music speak for them as they sway to the melody. “I like this.” Bucky murmurs into his neck. “’s nice.”

“I should take you out dancing sometime.”

Bucky hums.

“Wanna stay like this.”

“You can. As long as you want Buck.” Steve swallows past the lump in his throat. “Whatever you want.”

“Love you.”

“Love you best.”

 

On the last day, they sleep. Resting as God meant them to.

They take turns keeping watch over each other. Bucky falls asleep to his heartbeat, tells him it matched.

The next day, they see the sunrise.

“Ready punk?”

“When you are jerk.”


End file.
